It's So Over

Dear ______, I just want to take this moment and say that I regret sleeping with you. Having sex with you ruined everything and I feel spoiled. I never want to see you again. It's over. Sincerely, Yours Truly, But Not Really

That Guy At Pei Wei I Liked (But Never Knew)

 

             I wonder, as I hand him my Visa debit card, just what kind of lover he is.  Gentle, perhaps?  Does he hold them tenderly with, what I imagine to be, the softest hands this world has known?  Do his lips, so supple and moist, leave the tenderest traces of feeling over their bare flesh?  With such simple motions do all worry and care cease to be and find them to be replaced with an almost unbearable sense of calm and security?  When he enters them, does he do so with a slow-burning intensity, his eyes fixated on the person beneath him so that they know they are truly the only other person in this universe that has been born of their connection?  When they are both riding the highs of this passion and sweat has come to gleam on their flesh, so intimately connected in the most visceral of moments; when the apex of which culminates in an explosion of fire and ice, such contradictory and complementary sensations; when the lull has quieted their racing hearts and they come slowly down from such great heights, I wonder: does he hold them again, or does he leave?  Does he call?  Does he still even care?

            All this enters and leaves my mind in the span of seconds it takes for him to swipe my card through the reader and hold it expectantly for me to take back. My eyes meet his for a safe three seconds, during which I express my thanks and deposit the card safely into the confines of my wallet, which in I place into the satchel I have crossed over my chest.

            “You know,” he says while he gathers up the two bags that comprise my order, “every time I see your name print out for an order, I think, “wow, he just can’t get enough of us.’”  For a moment I think he has said, “can’t get enough of me” and my face, I can feel, burns something brilliant and I stumble for some sort of response.

            In my minds eye I can see myself laughing the careless laughter of some charismatic, suave gentleman of leisure.  Of course no such thing happens and instead I stand there, just looking at him with an expression I hope does not come across as if what he has said makes me appear to be ill or, even worse yet, melancholy. 

            “Yeah, well, um, you’re pretty close to my, ah, work.”  It comes out chopped and almost barely audible, to my ears at least, amidst the buzz and hum of a kitchen at lunch.  Behind him shouts are being made for orders; people at tables chat listlessly about things that, in my world are insignificant, but strike a chord of envy in my chest all the same.  Outside the sun is shining.

            My response must have been adequate, because the bags containing lunch are placed before me.  “Chopsticks or forks?”  The query is indication enough that our business here, because that is all this ever has been, is swiftly on its way to conclusion.  My contact with this man, who I have interacted with on the most basic of levels countless times before, is coming to an end. 

            I shake my head, add a quick “no thanks” and gather up the bags and paper cups, all emblazoned with the restaurants logo, into my eager hands.

            “Have a nice day,” he says to me before offering a polite smile before turning back to the growing line at another register. 

            I offer up a “you too”, though I imagine it has already been lost in the noise around us.  I walk away from all this to the soda fountains in the back where jars of red pepper sauce and spicy mustard sit neatly in the little cubby holes of the shelf along the wall.  I fill the two cups with iced tea, squeeze an orange slice into each one and deposit the squished carcass into the liquid.  Lid on.

            I place my ear buds back into place and Jarrod Gorbel has replaced Damien Rice.  I can’t place the song at just this moment because I have once again let my attention wander to the man behind the counter.  He is attractive, I finally deduce, though I had come to that conclusion a long time ago. 

            Moving past everyone again, I don’t even spare him a final glance.  Music streams into my ears, some song about infidelity.  My hips push the door open and I step out into the warming afternoon sunlit parking lot.  No, I muse to myself as my feet carry me back toward the office across the way, he is probably not gentle at all.

rabbit hole

I watched this movie, tonight, after already being in a mood that was probably not helped by watching. Perhaps though, I could appreciate the sorrow, despair, sadness, rage and…hope that it conveyed because of this.

I won’t go into a synopsis of the film. If you want to know what it’s about, Google it. Watch a trailer on YouTube. Rent it (because you can’t own it yet).

While I was watching it, I had to keep asking myself: “How does one move past something like that?” It would seem so easy being on the outside of a horrible situation offering someone your shoulder or an ear or words or…whatever. After all, at the end of day, you get to walk away, back to your undisturbed life while those going through something so horrible have to contend with the fact that “s/he is gone…forever…and not coming back.” They are gone and nothing you can do will change that.

I hate to call things “real”, but that’s what this film felt like to me. It seemed (because I’ve never been through anything like it before) like what would be an honest portrayal of a couple experiencing grief over a dead son. It was utterly depressing, but it did end on a note of hope. It wasn’t a happy ending, but it was a hopeful one. That maybe, someday down the line, they wouldn’t move past the fact that their son was taken from them, but they’d learn to…accept it and cope and adapt.

It reminded me of an amazing book I read two years ago, “Beautiful Children”. A child runs away, disappears into the night and is never heard from again. Part of the narrative focuses on the parents and how they cope (or lack thereof) with the situation. I almost imagine having your child runaway would be worse (if such a thing is even quantifiable). I mean, when your child dies, you know they are gone and not coming back. When they run away, there’s always that hope that they’ll return; the never knowing for sure what happened, or why. Or even if they’re still alive.

Watching it brought me back to this idea I had for a story. I had started part of it, somewhere down the line, but I lost inspiration and quit. I wanted to tell the story of a teenage boy who kills himself, and the aftermath. I had certain scenes all formed in my head. The opening would be of the mother in her therapist’s office, talking about the morning she discovered her son. How she woke up in the morning. Took a shower. Started making breakfast. Grabbed the paper. You know, doing all these mundane morning things we all take for granted. And then she goes to get her son out of bed and... Because, you know, that's how these things go. Death and loss aren't movies. There's not always some grand, exciting scene. It just happens and most times without warning. Just...bam. One moment life is positively fine, and the next it's not.

Another scene, one I almost sat down and wrote out a couple weeks ago, involved the father coming home after a long day of work. The house is empty. He starts to walk to his room, but something stops him. He turns to the door that belonged to his son’s room and he can’t help but go in. At that point I’d have gone into detail about how untouched everything was. How, as the father goes through everything that his son left behind, he never really even knew him at all. That he had never taken the time to get to know him or want to. And he breaks down and just loses it. In my head, if it were to be put into the screen, it’s this really dramatic, yet quiet scene of both rage and despair; love and loss and regret.

That scene I found I couldn’t write, because I was drawing from my own relationship with my father and imagined that it was him coming into my room and looking over my things and realizing that he never really knew me at all. And it got to be too much, so I stopped.

I think I might pick back up on it though. Of course, come tomorrow and this feeling having worn off, I might not.

I also think about these things I write down and post on my blog sites. Or on my journal on my hard drive, which is essentially everything I post to the public. Because let’s face it, I don’t think anyone really reads this. Even if they do, you don’t know me outside of this screen. You’ll probably never shake my hand, or laugh with me or cry with me. You’ll probably never have lunch or share drinks and stories. We won’t ever drive insanely fast down the lane with both windows rolled down, screaming out the lyrics of some punk or indie-rock song.

That’s okay though. In the end, I think that there’s this subconscious drive in all of us to want to be remembered. I know I’ll never be remembered for doing something great and historic. I take a small comfort, I guess, in knowing that someone, someday might stumble across all this in a random Google search. Maybe they’ll read an entry, find it interesting and continue on. And then they’ll keep reading until all my posts have been absorbed.

And even though I won’t know it because I’ll be long dead and gone, I’ll at least have been remembered. Thought of. Mortality is so…

We are mysterious creatures, yet in the end so much it seems not to matter.

Oh. One other thing I liked about rabbit hole. In part of the movie, the mother meets with the boy who hit her son. They talk and through each other cope. Well, he makes this comic book about a boy who travels through parallel universes, searching for his father.

At one point, the mother, after having read it and they’re talking says something like to the effect that she likes the idea that, somewhere out there in another time and space, she is happy.

I like that idea too. That maybe, in another universe, there is another version of me who isn’t so hard on himself. Who isn’t so unhappy for reasons he can’t quite explain. Who takes the love given to him with open arms and doesn’t question or sabotage or make light of it. Who can express himself outside of words and blogs and to the people in his life who can reach out and touch him. Who can laugh honestly and without fear of rejection. Who can be himself around everyone, and everyone likes him for it.

Who can sleep peacefully at night and not dwell on things that are best left in another universe altogether.

Dinner with Famke Janssen

Last night I had a dream. In this dream I was competing with a friend of mine to go out on a date with Famke Janssen.



At one point my friend turns to me and says: “Dude, you’re fucking gay. You won’t even sleep with her. Why are you doing this to me?”

I don’t recall my exact words, but it was something along the lines of “I’d happily go straight for her. I’ve always loved Famke!”

I also don’t recall what exactly we had to do to win her love and affection, but I do know I won. We were eating on some patio (probably in Venice because there were canals) and the entire time she did nothing but whine and complain about her failing film career. I just sat there, consoling her and thinking that I’d never get to sleep with her at this rate and that my life was ruined.

Upon waking I realized two things:

1) Famke Janssen hasn’t exactly had a megastar career

2) I don’t care, I still adore her anyway.

so about saturday night…

 

I was supposed to go to a “bad art” party.  I was invited to a going-away party.  I was also invited to a “let’s all sit around and listen to me be depressed” kick-back.  I was invited over to a friend’s house for hookah.  I did none of these things.

Instead, I made up several conversations in my head with the people who invited me to said functions about why I couldn’t come, or why I was uninvited.  And then I drove my car West on Bell Road out into the desert where no one knows my name and no one with any sense lives.

I drove on a barren road, under the cover of darkness (it was cloudy out) and parked on a turn off.  I got out of my car and proceeded to walk, alone, into the desert.  The air was chilly and dry.  This “super moon” everyone was talking about was, sadly, not visible due to the cloud coverage. 

I kept walking until I got to a point that, when I turned to look behind me, the road was distant enough that any lone traveller on it would be a duo of tiny yellow dots.  It was really quiet.  Almost eerily so.  At that moment I wished I was either high or drunk.  Alas, Babylon, I was neither.

I tilted my head up.  Took in a deep breath.  And I screamed.  At first, it was nothing but the sort of angry scream we’ve heard on movies dozens of times.  Inside I felt like a small boy who went suddenly radioactive and exploded in a sleepy neighborhood.  All this pent up rage and anger; it was so much that it felt like if it could be focused into a single point, it would trigger a large explosion.

Once I was out of breath, I stopped and panted.  And then I screamed again.  This time, it was actual words.

“I hate you, Joe Vega”
”I hate you, God”
”I hate you, Mom”
”I hate you, Dad”
”I hate you, Corey”

And then, when it was all over, I slumped back to my car.  I sat there for a moment or two, hands on the steering wheel, trying to collect myself and actually feel what just happened.  Nothing.

I started my car and drove back home.  Nothing changed.  Nothing magical or wonderful happened because of my little tantrum.  I could still feel the stiffness in my chest.  I could still feel the burning rage settling in the back of my mind, dormant and waiting to be triggered again.  And most of all, the hollow, empty, alone feeling remained center of it all. 

I got home, told a lie about where I’d just been, went to my room and attempted to write this out.  I couldn’t.  Instead, I watched porn and failed to respond to it.  I listened to 5 minutes of Bill Maher, but found it numbing.  I tried to write something not related to what I had done, but couldn’t find words.  I turned on Netflix and fell asleep to some mind-numbing teen show about aliens in Roswell and their “tragic” lives.

Day 4: Write about your closest friend(s)

 

I’m using by blog to answer this one because I have this guilty feeling whenever I post rather lengthy text posts on Tumblr.  I don’t like the idea of hogging people’s dashboards.  Not too mention no one really reads something long.  Not that this post is going to be insanely long.  It might have been earlier today, when I gave a fuck about things.  But now I’m buzzed, a little sleepy and ready to just get on with it.

My closest friend in the entirety of the planet that we live on in the solar system of space and heaven and Wally World and

My closest friend is Ryan.  We've been friends since 7th grade.  At first, we hated each other.  Like, bad.  We both found one another to be obnoxious and annoying.  He hated my weird, geekiness and probably my glasses.  I hated his smug, “I know everything” sort of attitude.  Somehow we ended up the best of friends.

We share a lot of the same interests; from video games and movies, to tv, music and politics.  We have a lot of the same though processes and compliment each other nicely.  We’ve definitely been through some shit over the years.  I did very, very, VERY wrong to him a couple years back, but our friendship survived.  It was pretty rocky for a year or so, but in the end we came out alright.  He’s married and has a daughter (another one due in August).  He moved to New Mexico going on two years ago.  Lately we haven’t really talked as much as we used it.  It does make me feel…sad.  I hate the thought of “out of sight, out of mind”…  At any rate, I try to visit him as often as I can.  I was just there for a week this past January and it was a blast.  Just like old times.

That’s really it.  You know you have yourself a soulfriend when you can go without talking for a month or two and then, when you see each other, you can pick up right where you left off.  Like nothing happened.  That’s us.  And I love him dearly.  He’s pretty much my other brother.

Another close friend would be my “work wife”, Diana.  We have this interesting relationship.  We don’t have too much in common, though we do both love really attractive men.  She’s a year older than I am, married and has two really adorable  boys.  The story of how she and her husband came to be is touching and almost makes me believe that it’s all worth it.  Sometimes

She and I get a long (for the most part) pretty swimmingly.  We play off one another, trading jokes and saying things that would get anyone else fired for sexual harassment.  We share personal stories about our relationships, give one another advice and just support each other through shit.  We don’t always see eye-to-eye or always get along (or always get one another), but in the end our friendship is a strong one.  I know she will always be there for me, even when she moves away this summer.  I will always be there for her too, though I don’t think she always believes that.  Then again, with my track record I don’t blame her.

And then there is my sister.  She’s almost two years younger than me, but we grew up pretty close and a strong friendship resulted from that.  Again, we don’t always get along (sibling fights are a must, after all), but she is the only one in my family to vocalize her acceptance of my sexuality and that there is nothing wrong with it.  Sometimes we don’t like going out with one another because we look nothing alike and sometimes people will mistake us for a couple.  No good.  Nooooo good.

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Katie.  We met back in high school and I thought she was kind of pretentious at first.  Which is what I think most people think of me too.  We bonded in Chemistry, ditched our respective third periods on a daily basis for Egg McMuffins and conversation.  She supplied my addiction to Mountain Dew and smart, quirky talk and I…gave her someone to laugh at and rides to places.  We’ve grown apart over the years (totally my fault) and I miss her.  We hang out once every great while and I love it when we do.  If I wasn’t so damn anti-social most nights I’d be asking her to do stuff.

Fox.  Met this guy back in exile in Michigan in 2007.  He’s hot.  He’s funny.  He’s a total man whore.  He’s smart.  He paints.  He tried to sleep with me (or I him, I don’t recall……) and I’m glad we didn’t.  I think it would have ruined the long-distance friendship we share.  Fox St. John, you are a dirty, dirty boy.

Conner.  We’re not best friends, and I think that has more to do with time and space than lack of interest or effort.  Plus, the guy knows a shit ton of people so I could see how easy it could be to get lost in the fold.  Regardless, he’s a really awesome guy.  Funny, quirky, smart and cute.  A good kisser too.  And a sucker for wine, fires and good music.

Trina.  You’re my best friend’s wife.  I won’t lie, there was a period of time I resented the relationship you have with Ryan.  There was a time, when it got serious between you two and you got married and all, that I wished you had never shown up.  That it was still the two of us against the world, facing it down the barrel of a gun, waiting to dodge another bullet or get totally fucked up.  Of course now I know you were one of the best things to have ever happened to him.  You tempered out some of his more irrational ways and have helped mold him into the awesome joe that he is now.  Plus you’re sweet and caring and have put up with more than your fair share of my shit.  You’re a good friend and I miss talking to you.

Welcome back Mr. McCarthy

Let me just say that US Representative Peter King (R-NY) is a complete and total gasbag. He’s chairs the House Committee on Homeland Security, which has recently started holding hearings into the radicalization of American-Muslims.

This whole thing just SCREAMS of the House Un-American Activities Committee and the Red Scare days of Senator Joseph McCarthy. Seriously, what the hell is the point of these kinds of hearings?

It’s one thing to investigate possible threats to your country. I get that. Being safe is good and all, but at what cost? Furthermore, why limit the scope of such a committee to the Muslim community? Yes, extremist Muslims performed horrific acts of terror. Let’s not kid ourselves though, Christian extremists are just as bad. Extremists of any sort aren’t usually a good thing.

You have psychopathic, ignorant members of the Westboro Baptist Church who mentally and emotionally terrorize the family and friends of fallen soldiers who had been fighting in a war that should never have been waged, all because of their misguided, narrow-minded view that America is accepting and promoting homosexuality. (Last time I checked, while not Uganda or the like, America isn’t exactly the inclusive, accepting haven of the gay community).

You have organizations like the Klu Klux Klan that have been terrorizing minority communities for decades, and for what? Because they weren’t born white? You have people like Timothy McVeigh and Charles Manson who weren’t Muslim but still managed to incite chaos and destruction. Where’s the committee to investigate people like that?

This is Islamaphobia. A center-right, “religious” nation that balks at any sort of culture that might challenge the ideals that this country was founded on. This is the result of a political party that has become dominated by a vast wing of religious nutbags who can’t seem to accept the division of church and state. A group that wishes to see a singular way of living and thinking brought into law.

Ugh. I get irritated and pissy just thinking about it. Aren’t there other things we should be focusing on right now? This is just a huge waste of tax-payer monies. What the hell is going to come from this? What is the outcome? Are we going to ban Muslims? Are we going to pass more laws that limit our personal freedoms in the name of “security”?

Here’s something to think about. The top three most crime-ridden cities in the US: Detroit, Flint and St. Louis. How about you direct your energies into investigating why that is and how to stop it. Make an effort to do something practical and, I dunno, benefit the country as a whole instead of pandering to your close-minded base.

Our economy is in the tank. Let’s work on that.

Oh that’s right. Poor people and minorities don’t vote for you anyway, so why would you care?

stupid kiss

I still can’t write that story for this picture.

I see this and I know this was not a sad, goodbye, breakup, “we’ll never see each other again” sort of kiss, but I know that’s how my story would end up.  I’m just not good at writing something happy and cheery and joyous.

At any rate, I shall force myself to have it done before week’s end.  That way I can start on something else.

scratch that.

I just remembered that I have a blog out there where I write letters to real people in my life.  It’s all done anonymously.  I don’t use my name.  It allows me to express exactly what I’m feeling without having to actually tell them and…  yeah.  so very passive-aggressive.

I read through a couple of them last night and felt a little silly.  Which is why I’m glad that I use a different name for myself.  I still need to write that story.  And finish my thoughts from last night’s blog.

I’m just unmotivated and feeling a lot less profound than I’d like.  Bitch.

yeah, tomorrow.

 

So I was going to write this long thing about feelings and issues.  My walks at night, aside from keeping my dog from become a rolling stone, are a good opportunity for me to just think.  I think about a lot of things.  Too many things.

Tonight was some serious self-reflection and yatta, yatta, yatta.  I had it all planned out but now that I’m home and sitting down and typing I just don’t think I have the energy to do it all again.

I don’t really have anyone I can talk about all this stuff with either.  It’s all pretty heavy. 

It’s times like these that make me sad I’ve removed myself from it all.  The more things change, the more things stay the same.  Truly true.

let’s talk about the sex

I’m supposed to be writing, or starting to write, a story based on a picture I pulled off dA about a kiss. instead, because I just can’t seem to focus on writing that story right now, I’m going to talk about sex. Or rather, better answer a question I was asked earlier today.

Q: Corey! Just how many guys have you been with? Huh, huh? Are you a slut? I bet you are! The quiet ones always are!

A: (at the time) Yes. I am a raging cum whore. Bukkake or die!

--

Now, that’s not even close to the truth. She pressed for a number and I wouldn’t give her one. Personally, I think it’s tacky to blurt out a number, as if it were some badge of conquest or honor. Then again, if your goal in life is to have sex with as many people as possible, then more power to you.

I didn’t have the time or inclination to provide my real answer. That and “what’s bukkake” kind of curtailed that conversation.

Real Answer: I’ve been with enough guys that I remember all their names (well except the ones I refer to as "Grand Canyon", "Meth Head" and "Christian Closet Case") and what having sex with them was like. I didn’t necessarily have a meaningful relationship with everyone one of them, though some might say even a one-night stand sexual experience does have some meaning. Each was different and opened my eyes to different things. Not all were great, but I’m still glad I had the experiences. There are even a couple I wouldn’t mind going another round or two with ;D

I look at sex as a way for two people to connect on a deeper, more intense level than if you were to say, just have a conversation or share a kiss or even punch ‘em in the face. Sometimes there’s love behind it, sometimes there’s just the need to feel something and sometimes it’s just because you’re horny and you want to get your rocks off. I don’t look down on or differently at guys (or girls) who just want to whore around. (So long as it’s safe and consensual)

I think media and entertainment have put this glossy, rose-colored lens on sex that really differs from the reality of the matter. It doesn’t always come from a place of love and frankly, it shouldn’t have to.

I like to ask some of the people I get into “debates” about relationships and sex with: “Why can’t two people come together, for even just a night if that’s all it is, and share a singular connection through sex? And then, when it’s all over, go their separate ways? Why does it have to always be something more?”

I usually just get some half-answer or a mumble or something about “being afraid of commitment” or “someone has self-esteem issues”. Someone who has control of their sexual identity and life has to have self-esteem issues? Really?

I guess for some, it’s like Cameron Diaz’s character in “Vanilla Sky” said":

“When you sleep with someone your body makes a promise, whether you do or not!”

Personally, I like to use another one of her lines when I’m feeling sentimental with another guy and he’s just not having it:

“I swallowed your cum, it means something!”

What's your daily morning routine?

My alarm goes off at 6. Then again at 6:15. Then again at 7:05. By this time, the other people I live with have graciously fed my dog, though that doesn't stop her from trying to trick me into feeding her again. Before I head to the bathroom, I check my phone. Now depending on how much time I have, I'll either brush my teeth at my sink or in the shower. I shower. I get dressed. After that, I get on my computer, check Facebook, CNN, Queerty, IGN, joystiq and gay-nerds.com.

On my way out the door I grab a cup of coffee. I usually take breakfast at work. Oatmeal.

Ask me anything

I Call Shenanigans On… (volume 1)

 

First I am going to preface this with a minor thing that is irritating me.  I downloaded Evernote this evening.  I downloaded it to help organize my various writing projects and it is wonderful.  So why the irritation?  Did it suddenly chafe me in places I’d rather not be chafed?  Maybe.  The truth of the matter is, it keeps synchronizing and alerting me in the corner of my screen.  The same way that stupid formspring app on my iPhone keeps alerting me every five goddamn seconds that I have unanswered questions.  Well newsflash!  Life seems to be nothing more than fracking unanswered questions!!!!!

Alright, now that’s out of the way.

The future.  It’s so unpredictable, right?  The road before us is just littered with so much possibility.  Anything could happen.  Anything.

Stop.  Right.  There.

The next time a guy, or girl if that’s your fancy, asks you if they might have a chance, please, please, PLEASE don’t use a line like: “I’m open to the possibility.  You never know what the future might hold.”

I call bullshit on that.  I’ll admit.  I’ve used it.  And I used it for the reason I imagine most people do.  They’re too afraid to be honest and possibly hurt someone’s feelings.  That or someone just has a serious phobia of commitment.  Either way, bogus, bogus, BOGUS!

While yes, the future is most assuredly open and unpredictable, it isn’t completely random or unknown.  Crouched somewhere in the field of possibility is a thing called “probability”.  It’s that thing that keeps suckers in low-income status where they are because they’re spending money, that could otherwise go to bettering their lives, on lottery tickets.  Is there a chance they’ll win big?  Sure.  Is it probable?  No.  Life is not just a series of unanswered questions; it’s also a game of statistics and numbers.

Deep down, when you’re telling someone who has an interest in you if there’s a chance they can get with you and any other occasion you’d say “no”, but they’re just too damn nice or sweet, you know you’re selling them a lottery ticket.

On another note…

Don’t buy into the whole “if it’s meant to be, then it’ll happen.”

Unless of course you subscribe to the idea that every moment of our lives has been plotted out already in some grand production directed by the Invisible Man Upstairs.  Fate is an illusion.  We are beings of Free Will and make all our own decisions.  Our futures are the products of those decisions. 

We’re not on rails.  And if we are, how do I get off this ride?

Would you rather be rich or famous?

I'd rather be rich. I like the idea that I could pretty much do whatever I wanted and not be noticed so much for it. I like my privacy and living a bit "under the radar".

Ask me anything